It has been nine summers since she has been gone; still, her widower cries for her. She was the sunrise of many summers. The glorious bloom of spring flowers. Her kisses were a comfort in the late hours. Beauty and serenity flowed in the narrative of her whispers. She was an angelic warmth in the winter. Love moved like a river within her. Her physical beauty matched the essence of her ethereal nature. In the room she slept he aura still lingers. The one that she immensely loved still wears the symbol of his love for her on his finger. He holds the frame that holds her last picture, his soul reaching for her, he lovingly whispers, Lucia.
Tag: Love
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Ice glides over stiffened nipples which are intermittently sucked and licked with eager warmth. The constant contrast in temperature increases the desire for a deeper pleasure. Slowly melting ice travels to lower erogenous zones that crave to be pleased. Erotic flesh yearns for cold numbness to tease and press against warm wetness. Moaning increases with every slight movement. Legs are held back for ecstasy to thoroughly explore feminine sensitivity. The desire to please takes over with every prompting licentious whisper. The softness of lips and tongue’s skillfulness coordinate with penetrative fingers . . . shudders ensue soon after. Well endowed hardness is mounted; kisses become more passionate with unbroken eye contact. Strong arms and hands on hips create a rhythm that causes trance like eroticism. Without breaking rhythm, she leans back to feel the true measure of him. The fullness of hard length and width causes deeper breathing. Thickness seduces her G – spot, inciting her to savor heights of euphoria before intense release. She is fully immersed in primal want. As she rides and sweats she rubs her breasts repeating words of sensual ecstasy in heavy breath. She must utilize every inch of his hardened flesh. He moans with passion, withstanding the desire to release in the throes of an aggressive fucking. He lets go of her hips, and she takes full control of her movements, slowing her rhythm and leaning in to intimately whisper to him. Her words are enticing, causing him to loudly release inside of her. She explodes silently in ecstasy lost in orgasmic seizure, releasing in screams and uncontrollable shaking right after.
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Stillness settles; the weeping soul finds solace. Release comes; rivers of sorrow overflow, forming streams of emotions that only weeping angels know. The weary spirit finds rest in a place where hyacinth and lavender winds blow. Mysteries are revealed. The last loving whispers of infinite souls are unsealed. Aura is replenished in meditative essence. In a quiet room a powerful rebirth takes place with only the walls to bear witness. What is written is akin to divine poet laureates collaborating to diligently craft every sentence. In the stillness, the divine feminine begins again in beautiful nakedness. To truly love her, is to embrace her with a pure heart and dry her tears with a thousand passionate kisses.
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The comfort of a woman, affectionate, calming, and feminine is healing to the soul that is hurting. Sometimes tears run in the moment that release is found. To be in her embrace as the warmth of her hands caress one’s face is to know the unrestrained expressions of her love. To be in her presence and to share in the balm of her essence is to discover her angelic existence. Even the fragrance of her freshly conditioned hair brings a tranquility that leads to ecstasy. Her whispers are endless lines of sentimental poetry. The beautiful intricacy of her intimacy is a transcendent lesson in romantic history. Her very existence is the epitome of a divine mystery. Emotions of pure love overflow when she whispers, Kiss me.
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We wept with our mothers when our fathers left us. Comforting us, they held us tightly, tearfully whispering how much they loved us. We wept and slept, arising to the fact that all we had was us. Wiping the tears from her eyes, I said solemnly, Mom, please don’t cry. She would cook, stare and press her hair with rolling tears. Fuck the coward who caused us to go through the hard years. Fuck his life. Fuck his wife. Fuck his days and his nights. A rose for my mother and all others who suffered. I am strengthened in my pain and nights of endless rain. We didn’t necessarily want stepfathers. We wanted our mothers to find new love and to live again, in the love and security of faithful and honorable men. I will recite a loving poem and leave a beautiful rose for them.
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That a woman could understand me and we hold each other tearfully, is a higher level of intimacy that is incomparable to anything physical. To forgo a temporary night of pleasure because I treasure her is a sentiment that is spiritual. To lovingly convey to her that I desire for us to be of one breath, forsaking all others, until death, is an act that is deeply sentimental. When we are of one body who she was with before me is inconsequential. If she is in my rapture, I will unconditionally love her forever; my vows are not vain utterances or ineffectual words on paper. In a peaceful place under the sun, with an abundance of flowers, let us all gather together to witness a ceremony of passionate kisses, backless silk white dresses, and loving whispers. The exchange of rings is symbolic of the giving of ourselves to each other. She is radiant with the gold necklace that belonged to my late mother. She is an angel, for all I have is her.
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There is stillness in the underneath where they sleep, under the soil permeated by the tears of the living who wept and they who still weep. They who are no more were returned to earth’s keep, roses placed upon them lowered into the deep. The depth of love for the dead overflows when tears are shed in the winter and in the spring when roses arise from their slumber. Flowers are taken to the dead where the remnants of them lie; the heavens open and rain falls symbolizing the tears shed when the dead were once alive. They are forever marked upon the loved ones by whom they are survived. Under overcast skies the living kneel and whisper prayers with tears falling from solemn eyes. They eternally sleep, yet in loving hearts they repeatedly arise. In the depths of the souls of those that survive they who sleep repeatedly arise.
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Unconditional love is often sacrifices unseen, selflessness not necessarily noticed, and labor unrequited by well worded compliments. Unconditional love can be expressed with directness or subtly woven through many sentiments. Unconditional love can be words whispered in a last breath. Unconditional love is an ocean with infinite depth. Unconditional love is loyalty flawlessly maintained even after death.
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The stars of the night’s sky crown her — she is beautiful in her aura — oh, wonderful and majestic mother, the nurturer, the giver, the comforter — I kiss you with gratitude and bestow upon you the greatest honor. You are heaven’s daughter. The sacredness of your womb brings forth life from blessed darkness to blessed light. I know well the the intimacy of your soul and the depth of your plight. Your love is unwavering; for the hungry, for the rejected, for the motherless, and for the unloved you are a haven. The afflicted cry out to heaven and you are sent to them. Your hands bring forth beautiful creations. You are the forebearer of future powerful nations. You are a woman immersed in the vastness of what is intelligent, strong, loving and feminine. Your most potent medicine is affection. In your embrace there is an angelic protection.
As your own, you have accepted many motherless daughters and sons. You dispel trauma when tears run. You yourself have wept and have not slept, yet you still flawlessly and without the expectation of reciprocity give of yourself. There is a glow upon you that transcends the beauty of everything else. You are otherworldly beautiful. If no one else has told you, know that someone somewhere truly loves you. Eyes of adoration fall upon you. Beautiful mother, the loving sentiments that are written about you are eternal.
Intimate Compositions 